Enough
by River Tenenbaum
Summary: Clarke breaks into her moonshine stash and Bellamy tries to put her to bed.


"I told you I could be fun," she came up from behind him, smelling like sweat, mud, and Monty's moonshine.

"Never doubted it, Princess," he smirked despite himself, then turned around to face her. "What are you celebrating tonight, then?"

Her footing faltered and she swayed precariously, bumping into a tree trunk before he could reach her in time.

"Not celebrating," her voice cracked as she looked away from him. As she did so, moonlight danced off the tear tracks on her cheeks. Bellamy realized his mistake.

"What is it?" his face hardened into a stern frown almost immediately. He put his gun down (which was a really bad idea, now that he'd thought about it, because _It's about three in the morning_ and _Grounders_) and approached Clarke cautiously. "Where'd you get the moonshine, anyway?"

"I have some stocked up in the drop ship," she sniffled, then turned to him with a painfully feigned smile. "Come drink with me?"

He regarded her thoughtfully. There was a desperate glint in her eyes and he sighed, reaching for his radio.

"Miller," he spoke into his walkie-talkie, not taking his eyes off her. "Mind starting your watch early?"

* * *

><p>"Hey, hey...I'm...I'm talking to you," she insisted sluggishly, waving about the little tin bowl she had been using as a cup. Clarke was seated on what she normally used as the operating table, legs crossed. He was standing across her, leaning against the drop ship's hull. Between them, they'd easily reached the last of the moonshine.<p>

"'M listening," he sighed, opening his eyes. She'd been talking a lot about her mother—and before that, her father; apparently it was his birthday. The moonshine seemed to had really loosened her tongue and unexpectedly brought her frustrations to the surface. For the record, Bellamy definitely thought it was healthy for her to be talking about this stuff (because _Now I see why she's so goddamn hell-bent on protecting everyone all the time_ and _She's too young for all this crap_ and _We all are_), but he was sleepy (and maybe a bit tipsy) and had only closed his eyes for a second before she'd brought him back.

"...It's like she doesn't...t-trust me...at all," she struggled with getting the words out clearly, sighing. "She still t-treats me...like a k-kid." Her shoulders slump and she placed the bowl beside her. She looked at the empty canister beside it and sighed again.

"It's because you _are_ a kid, Princess," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. "I look out for O, too," he offered half-heartedly, stifling a yawn. This was getting really old really fast. The sun would rise soon and he needed to rest (that is, _If the princess's gonna stop talking_). "You're lucky."

"I know," her voice broke, and Bellamy snapped awake. He studied her—matted hair, muddied face, fragile frame, and tired eyes. "I know," she said again, seemingly trying to reassure herself more than anyone.

"C'mon, time for bed," he decided (_More for my sake than hers_, really), pushing off against the hull and moving towards her until they were almost chest to—well, face. (_She's so tiny_, and honestly the real question was _How's it possible to have that much energy packed into such a small person?_) He grabbed Clarke's arm and tugged at it, hoping she'd follow and get off the operating table.

"_Idon'twannagotobed_," she mumbled, slurring her words. She frowned up at him. "You know, you're not...not half the asshole you p-pretend to be."

He matched her frown, looking to the heavens exasperatedly; it was well past the ungodly hours of the night and his patience was beginning to wear thin. He sighed quietly, catching a whiff of moonshine in his breath. "C'mon. Don't make me drag you outta here."

"You couldn't...even...even if you tried," she taunted disconnectedly. "We _aaaalllll_ know who's in charge here." Clarke swayed, raising her brows in a challenge. "It's _meee_," she sang out softly as she leaned in, as if it were a secret for the both of them to share.

Bellamy huffed impatiently, nostrils flaring in frustration.

"Clarke," he grumbled, his frown etching deeper into his clenched jaw. This close, he could smell the mingling sweat and mud on her again, as well as the sharp tang of blood and faint hints of some of the herbs she'd used to treat the sick and wounded. He wrinkled his nose (because _How could someone smell like both life and death at the same time?_) and cleared his throat (because _That's just wrong on a different level)_.

He watched wordlessly as her eyes fluttered shut and she yawned. Clarke hummed softly as she swayed again, coming to rest her forehead on his chest. He scoffed.

"I'm so...tired, Bellamy," she breathed out, eyes still shut. "I don't even know if...what I'm doing...is right."

He was silent for quite a while, not knowing what exactly to say, or even if he should say anything at all. His weary eyebrows met above his dark irises.

"We're doing the best we can," he finally offered as he looked at the top of her head—the distinct dirty blonde that he'd learnt to spot a mile away. "And that's enough for me."

She broke away to look up at him through half-lidded eyes and they each held the other's gaze, neither knowing what to say next. He looked away after a moment (because _She looks like shit_ and _I don't like seeing her beaten up like this_ and _It's not even just physical tiredness anymore _and _I wish I knew how help_ and _I'm a fucking idiot_ and _She doesn't deserve_—)

"Okay," she whispered, just enough to make him look at her again.

"Okay?" he watched her, not understanding. She smiled at him—a small smile, a secret one that he hadn't seen before. He had a feeling he wouldn't see it again anytime soon (except _Maybe when Monty cooks up a new batch of moonshine_).

"If it's enough for you, it's enough for me," she said slowly, determination coloring her words.

He was a bit taken aback (because _Hey, she __**does**_ _trust me!_ and _She __**trusts**_ _me_ and _She trusts __**me**__?_) but quickly forced out an arrogant chuckle anyway. "Course it is."

Her lips quickly formed a stern scowl and she glared at him weakly.

"C'mon," he brought his right hand up and tugged at her arm again, honestly hoping she'd come along this time around (because _She can be so goddamn stubborn_, and _Tonight isn't really the night_). "Bed."

"No-o-ooo," she dragged out the vowel, whining and crossing her arms as her whole body sagged, contradicting her futile resistance.

"Clarke."

She shook her head, eyes fluttering shut, and began slowly leaning forward, coming to rest against his chest again. Her forehead felt surprisingly _cozy_ through the coarse fabric of his shirt; he took a small step forward and closed the distance between him and the table so that her face was on his chest. He felt her yawn, and almost as if the sound of her yawn infected him, fatigue washed over him like a warm wave creeping onto shore. He sighed, closed his eyes (_For only a second, I swear_), and let it come over him.

God knows how long they stayed like that. (_More than a second, _surely, because _Shit, the sun's coming up._) His legs had started to feel numb and he'd realized that his chin had come to rest on the top of her head, and that his fingers were still clutched onto her left arm. All he could hear was Clarke's constant deep breaths.

"Hey," he whispered, squeezing hesitantly, unsure whether or not she was still conscious. His breath on her head displaced some stray strands of hair, and she stirred.

"Hey," he repeated, squeezing her arm with more urgency. "Clarke."

"_Shh_—stop," she mumbled, voice stained with sleep and alcohol. She brought her right hand up against his side, by his ribs, and patted him twice, as if to calm him down.

Bellamy rolled his eyes and sighed (for the umpteenth time then, because _I can't remember the last time I fucking __**sighed**_ _this much_). "You're a goddamn pain in the ass," he muttered.

He dislodged her from him and, seeing that her eyes had remained shut, promptly decided to give up. He glared at her, gently laying her down on her side on the makeshift operating table (which looked very off, because _I'm sure there's an irony in this somewhere_ and _God I hope she's never the one on here_). She inhaled deeply and curled up, releasing a shaky breath as he watched her.

With sleep threatening to blindfold him and knock him out at any moment, he hastily searched for something to—(_There, part of the parachute_). He grabbed the worn down piece of nylon fabric and threw it up and over Clarke, its edges easily spilling out over her and onto the floor.

He briefly contemplated leaving and heading back to his own tent for a short nap (_Maybe if wishful thinking actually worked_), but decided to resume his previous post against the drop ship's hull, watching her. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately (and _Of course I need to watch her, we need her to stay alive_ and _It's entertaining trying to figure out what makes her tick, anyway_ and _She's so stubborn_ and _I don't think anyone'll ever really figure her out_).

Despite looking like utter defeat with scars, dirt, and fresh wounds littering her face (and he winces involuntarily), her expression was surprisingly serene (and honestly _It's weird seeing her with her default worried face_). He took in the still scene before him—Clarke curled up on the table, looking miniscule smothered in the parachute, tranquil face betraying the reality of what she would wake up to—and committed it to his memory. He allowed himself a small smile—a secret smile not unlike the one she gave him earlier.

"Yeah, that's enough for me."

He turned to exit the drop ship.


End file.
